


just one single glimpse of relief

by iPhone



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Does Beca have daddy issues?? Maybe so, F/F, First Kiss, First Time, Funeral Sex, Minor Character Death, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iPhone/pseuds/iPhone
Summary: Beca encounters an old friend at her father's funeral.
Relationships: Chloe Beale & Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Comments: 47
Kudos: 205





	just one single glimpse of relief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asimplefavor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimplefavor/gifts).



> HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY CHLOE. i tried so hard to (1) make this in on time for your birthday and (2) make this something worth reading 😭 i hope you like how this turned out even though I failed the first point already HAHA.
> 
> To everybody else, yes I gifted my wifey some angst and smut. WHAT ABOUT IT. This is an unbeta'd mess.
> 
> Fic title from Epiphany.
> 
> [GIFSET HERE](https://beca-mitchell.tumblr.com/post/640779662807744512/just-one-single-glimpse-of-relief-11-summary).

_only twenty minutes to sleep_  
_but you dream of some epiphany_  
_just one single glimpse of relief_  
_to make some sense of what you've seen_

* * *

One of Beca’s first memories of her father is sitting atop his shoulders as they stand at Santa Monica Pier watching the waves crash against the shore and wooden beams alike. The sun on her face.

It might as well be her last because she isn’t sure that she ever really felt that close to him ever again.

* * *

“Beca. It’s your father.”

The words are familiar, but it is not his voice. It is Sheila’s.

Dread settles in Beca’s chest like hope draining away with a setting sun.

* * *

_“I like your father,” Chloe says as they watch Beca’s father drive off with Sheila after the ICCA Finals. “He seems nice. Like he cares.”_

_Beca isn’t really sure what to say about that. She wonders vaguely what her father would say about Chloe if he ever ends up meeting her. Oddly, the first thing that comes to mind is that he would approve wholeheartedly, though she isn’t quite sure what he’d approve_ of.

_Then Jesse’s arm comes down heavily on her shoulder, jolting her back to the present reality. The kiss. Jesse. The unmistakable confusing sadness in Chloe’s eyes as she follows the movement._

_“Your father was so cool for coming to see you!” Jesse’s enthusiasm isn’t infectious, not quite, but it reminds Beca of obligations and forgiveness and expectations and—yes, okay, maybe this is where she’s supposed to be._

_She can make it feel right._

* * *

“I’m so sorry, Beca.”

Beca tries to nod or force a grateful smile at yet another vague acquaintance in her life. Most of the people milling about might as well be total strangers, yet another reminder that she had been so detached from her father and the life he made his own. Their brief moment of reconciliation while Beca had attended Barden was short-lived.

But it was still something.

That something had blossomed into something akin to hope and to that hope, Beca clung. For years, she clung on to that, knowing there would always be _time_ for her to have the relationship she always wanted for her and her father.

Now, she feels like she’s heard the whole wheel of possible phrases. Platitudes. Pleasantries. Well-wishes.

_It is so unexpected._

_These things happen_.

That’s what everybody’s told Beca at least. A never-ending barrage of assurances and near-meaningly comforts. Sympathy. Understanding.

 _No,_ Beca wants to say. There is nothing they could _possibly_ understand. Not about her, not about her relationship with her father, and not about how she feels regarding his death.

These feelings of isolation, loneliness, fucking despair—it would _almost_ be funny to Beca that she’s experiencing all of them at once like she’s back in high school again, but the thought only reminds her of a time when her father _had_ been alive and she hadn’t taken advantage of that at all.

_It was so sudden._

Beca lifts her gaze from the spread of funeral home brochures. Sheila had handled the wake. Beca’s mother helped. Beca had tried, but all she managed to do is picture the last time she and her father had spoken—the last time she had _smiled_ at him in person.

It makes her feel sick.

And _fuck_ , all the kind words from people. They sink into her like claws, depositing regret and pain like stones in her stomach. She’s not sure how she’ll ever remove them.

So she settles for numbness even as life flits around her, desperately trying to make her feel something. But she can’t—she won’t.

It is the regret that tastes so much like bitterness paired with the knowledge that there is nothing more she can do, at least not in terms of her relationship with her father.

Though it is over a decade ago, old, biting words still stab at her: _You push people away. Why is that?_

She’s not sure she’s ever been able to answer that.

* * *

It’s not even the _funeral._ It’s the wake. The wake that’s taking place in Beca’s father’s excessively large house. Beca had never even thought to ask why he felt the need to get such a big house after leaving her and her mom. She had always begrudged him of it to some degree. Gazing around at the neatly-lined books and homely decor, Beca wonders if all he wanted was to have a family and home to show off. Nothing like the small apartment that she and her mother lived in up until Beca left for college.

Beca shakes her head, trying to dispel some of the resentment and negativity. There’s no point, not anymore.

Regardless, Beca is so tired of people coming up to her and saying words. Meaningless words with good intent. Or meaningful words with good intent. With the barrage of people, Beca isn’t entirely sure anymore. She hovers by the drinks table as people bustle in and out of her father’s home. She imagines her mother wouldn’t be too pleased if she started up a drinking game—one glass of whiskey for every five people that wear the same boring black suit. Another glass for black dresses.

Beca is only on her second glass when she spots a familiar flash of red hair. She can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, especially when the body turns completely and Beca finds herself face-to-face with Chloe Beale for the first time in a long while.

(To most, maybe two years don’t equate to the end of the world, but Beca thinks that Chloe was so much more than just a friend. She meant something to Beca. She meant the world. Something like that.)

“Hi,” Chloe greets softly. She shifts uncomfortably like she might reach for a hug. Beca isn’t sure either of them would really be able to handle that right now so she is grateful that Chloe ultimately chooses not to while she processes her own shock.

“Chloe,” Beca says because it’s all she can manage at the moment. The mere vision of Chloe before her drills emotions through her, like a jolt to her system. She wonders if she’s imagining it, in a grief-induced haze. “Chloe, what are you—”

“TA,” Chloe explains simply, eyes tracking over Beca’s face. Beca spots familiar emotions: concern, pain, care. So much care, which makes sense because it’s _Chloe Beale_. Beca has never known Chloe to be aloof or flippant about anything and she doesn’t expect her to just stop caring. It’s reassuring at least that Chloe is more or less the same. “I was his TA for a few semesters, remember?” is Chloe’s further explanation when Beca doesn’t immediately respond. “One of his British Literature classes.”

It’s the most normal conversation Beca’s had all day, at least at the rate this is going. Something in her mind clicks and the specific Barden memory rebounds back to her a little too eagerly. A wry smile touches Beca’s lips. “How could I forget? All those purposefully-failed years.” Their banter was always easy; their banter was always natural. Now, on a bleak day, is no exception. Beca can’t quite believe that she’s contemplating the naturalness of their rapport at this moment, but it feels like the easiest thing to do

The second easiest is looking into Chloe’s eyes and finding familiar comfort.

Chloe smiles like she might agree with Beca’s inner thoughts, but it doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “Yeah,” she agrees softly. “And,” she continues, “because I want to be here for you, Bec.” She says it so simply like there isn’t an entire ocean of emotional distance between them. All their unresolved feelings and all the pieces of their fractured friendship.

Pieces that Beca helped create.

Nonetheless, Chloe’s words make Beca take pause. So instead of truly lingering on the emotions swirling through her, she gives herself a moment to observe what Chloe is wearing because it gives her something else to do; something else to occupy her mind. Chloe is dressed neatly in a pretty black dress with a dark grey cardigan draped over her arms. It is perhaps the worst moment to notice, but Beca enjoys the fact that Chloe isn’t wearing the cardigan and hiding her shoulders and arms. The skin on display lights something warm in Beca, but she quickly brushes it off: it is simply because she hasn’t seen Chloe in a couple years. They drifted apart after Beca moved to Los Angeles and Chloe moved to Boulder. It was inevitable, even if Beca had thought—had hoped—that there would be something else about their relationship that would be inevitable.

“It’s been a while,” Beca finally manages to say. “I...yeah,” she finishes lamely, unsure if there is really anything else to say. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I almost didn’t come,” Chloe admits. “But…” she trails off, eyes flicking to the ground hesitantly. “He was a really kind person and—you—”

“Please don’t.”

Chloe softens. “Bec.”

Beca kind of hates the way the old nickname slips out of Chloe’s mouth. From her lips. Off her tongue. She hates the way her eyes flick to Chloe’s mouth at a time like this because of all these fucking confusing feelings, of course. It’s easier to just pretend like they _aren’t_ friends even if all she wants to do is...throw herself into Chloe’s arms.

“Beca?” Chloe asks again when Beca continues staring blankly at her. “Do you need to sit down? Let me help you.”

“I can’t do this,” Beca interrupts, not wanting to see whatever indecipherable emotions linger in Chloe’s eyes. “I...just can’t. Please don’t,” she all but begs.

Chloe’s brow furrows. “Beca, come on.”

“No.” Beca wraps her arms around herself, shivering inadvertently. Immediately Chloe lifts the cardigan and attempts to drape it over her shoulders. As if on instinct, Beca shrugs it away, swallowing an apology when she sees the immediate hurt in Chloe’s eyes. “Please,” she whispers.

Chloe shifts her stance, but she does not move away. She waits patiently for Beca to regain her bearings and her words. When Beca says nothing again and the world continues spinning around them, Chloe moves once more, this time finally draping her cardigan around Beca’s shoulders and wrapping her in warmth for the first time in a long time.

* * *

Chloe ends up staying behind late to help Beca and her family clean up. Beca tries not to hover, but she finds herself drawn to Chloe (as usual). Despite her best efforts, she ends up staying close to Chloe, helping her pick up paper plates and napkins, disposing of them along the way.

It feels normal, almost. Like they’re back at Barden, trying to pick up after their housemates.

Beca glances at Chloe as the thought passes. She feels guilty for even thinking about anything else, but she supposes it can’t exactly be helped when she’s also willing enough to take on any distraction possible.

Chloe catches her gaze. “Bec, you don’t have to do anything. Let me help.”

“No, it’s okay,” Beca says quickly as she looks back down at her hands. “Takes my mind off things.”

Chloe says nothing for a while and all Beca hears is the rustling of the garbage bag between them. “It’s okay to be sad,” Chloe finally murmurs, quiet enough that Beca almost misses it. Almost.

Beca shuts her eyes and tries to calm her breathing. It reminds her so much of what her father used to say—the same kind of sadness that permeated the air between them. She instinctively wants to lash out at Chloe for saying that, no matter how true it is.

It almost makes Beca want to laugh, ultimately. Being told by her longtime friend (turned-crush-turned-whatever) that it’s okay to be _sad_ when _sad_ isn’t nearly an adequate enough emotion to capture all of the gut-wrenching disappointment she feels. And a part of her is even resentful because of course it’s disappointment in herself—almost an homage to how disappointed she had been with her father and how disappointed he had been with her.

But it’s too late to even reconcile all of _that_.

“I know,” Beca replies steadily. She swallows the lump in her throat. “I know that, Chloe.”

“I know,” Chloe rushes to say. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Of course you know. I just…” Chloe shifts behind her and hovers near Beca’s arm. “How can I help?”

“He’s just gone. You know? He’s just gone and I didn’t even really get to say anything. No goodbye, no hug, just all these empty spaces where he once was. And I don’t even _know_ these places well.”

Chloe ties up the bag then sets it aside. “Hey,” she calls, placing a hand on Beca’s arm. “Let’s just finish up later. Why don’t I make you some tea or something. You can go lie down for a bit.”

Beca shrugs off Chloe’s hand but does as she asks, grumbling as she heads up the stairs. She ignores all the pictures she passes along the way, not wanting to see how few pictures she’s in, whether by virtue of her own hatred of photos or her father’s desire to not have her creep into his life that far.

The stifling Georgia heat seems to push through the walls of the house. Beca splashes some water on her face before she heads to her designated room (her room? The spare bedroom?) to await Chloe’s promised tea.

She sits amongst the plain beige walls and the gray bedsheets. The room is fairly empty. Beca barely remembers the nights she spent here—there had been too few to really count. It was just a place to sleep, never a home.

Never a place where she felt like she belonged.

Chloe knocks before entering. Beca smiles tightly, gesturing at Chloe to come in all the way. She kind of hates unfairly pretty Chloe looks with her loosely-curled hair and her black dress. She hates that being attracted to Chloe is taking priority right now.

“Tea?” Chloe offers, holding the steaming mug.

Beca nods, taking the proffered drink.

The silence between them is comfortable as Beca drinks. Chloe is happy to alternate between scrolling through social media on her phone and watching Beca with attentive, intense eyes. Beca finishes the drink slowly once it cools to an acceptable heat and thanks Chloe quietly when Chloe places the mug on her desk.

Chloe hovers, looking around at the empty room unsurely.

“I...don’t want to be alone. Will you stay?” Still hesitant, Chloe blinks at her with uncertainty in her eyes. “Please,” Beca tries again, knowing nothing except that she must get Chloe to stay.

Chloe caves at the pleading in Beca’s voice and her eyes. “Sure. I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“We can...I don’t know. What do people usually do on days like these?”

“We can just talk,” Chloe suggests awkwardly—a new sight for Beca. “I...don’t know either. But maybe talking will help. We can...talk about him, if you want.”

“What would we talk about?” Beca asks somewhat hollowly.

“I don’t know,” Chloe admits. “What would make you feel better? Do you want to talk about your favorite memories? Funny mom—”

“This isn’t working,” Beca interrupts immediately. She waits until Chloe looks at her. “I...I just feel so fucking sad, but it’s—it’s not even—it’s because I _don’t_ feel sad. Does that make sense?”

“I understand,” Chloe promises. “We don’t have to talk...I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. I feel like Aubrey would know what to do.”

 _That_ makes Beca laugh. “I can’t imagine she would. Not...more than you would anyway.” She means that. Aubrey had her own brand of tough love, but Beca highly doubts she would feel more comfortable with Aubrey Posen at the helm of this particular crashing vehicle.

“I mean...I guess sometimes I never know with you,” Chloe begins hesitantly. “You know...like I feel like I’m too much for what you need.”

 _No, you’re perfect._ “You’re fine,” Beca says roughly, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “Can we just. I don’t know. Listen to music or something.” She looks around, spotting the tiny bluetooth speaker at the corner of her bedside table. “Here,” she mumbles, pulling up her Spotify. “Pick something.”

Chloe takes her phone slowly, watching Beca with wary eyes. She settles on a playlist of Beca’s, smiling at the lack of creativity in Beca’s titling (Playlist #45—Sad), before she gently places the phone back in Beca’s hands. The music is tinny, coming through the speakers, but it’s just enough to fill the air.

Chloe gazes around at the bare walls, the sparsely decorated room, and the minimal furniture. It fills her with pain to know that Beca had barely felt welcome there—that Beca much preferred staying at the Bellas house during their Barden days.

There is so much that Chloe wants to say, but she isn’t sure what Beca wants to hear. How she longs to tell Beca how much she loves her. How much she cares.

“I wish I had more photos with him,” Beca says, stretching out on her bed. Her throat hurts, like she needs more water, but she doesn’t want Chloe to leave her side. Chloe sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed like she doesn’t know whether to leave or lie down next to Beca—a testament to the distance and tension between them because Beca can recall a time when Chloe wouldn’t have hesitated.

“What was the last photo you had of him?” Chloe ventures to ask. She is grateful that Beca breaks the silence. “Do you mind showing me?”

Beca shrugs, scrolling through her phone. It had been a photo from the previous summer—her and her father sitting on his porch, both of them on their respective phones. She shows it to Chloe. “Sheila took it. Thought it was funny.”

Chloe smiles, gazing down at the photo. “It is a little funny. We’re all so into our little devices.”

Beca nods. “He said the same thing.”

Chloe hands her phone back. “He loved you, Beca.”

“I know,” Beca responds defensively. “Of course he did. He was my dad.”

“I know,” Chloe hurries to say. “I’m sorry. I just. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Beca offers. She doesn’t say it harshly. She admires that Chloe has held up long enough to even stay after everybody has long left. Feeling bold, she reaches out to tug at Chloe’s forearm. “Can you just...lie down. You’re making me go cross-eyed trying to keep my head up to look at you.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Okay, but only because I don’t want you to go crosseyed. Or,” she suggests, tucking her dress underneath her as she lies down next to Beca in the spacious bed. “You could just stop looking at me.”

She says it teasingly but Beca wonders how far she can make it go. “I wouldn’t want to do that,” she murmurs, tilting her head so she can watch the blush rise up on Chloe’s cheeks.

Chloe turns surprised eyes to her. “Bold,” she assesses.

Beca shrugs, going for nonchalance even as her heart pounds. “Why are you here?” she asks instead, challenging Chloe with her voice even as her voice remains soft.

“Because I want to be here for you,” Chloe replies immediately. Beca sees no hint of deceit in Chloe’s expressive eyes. “I...care about you, Beca. Even if you cut yourself off from everybody. From me.” Finally, some hurt in Chloe’s eyes. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry.”

Chloe sighs, turning her head to face the ceiling again. “I’m sorry too. I wish I had reached out sooner. This is just…”

Beca turns her body, scooting closer as much as she dares. If Chloe notices, she doesn’t say anything. “I’m...thank you for coming.”

Chloe swallows visibly, eyes beginning to glisten with something new. She opens her mouth to respond, but she finds that she only wants to warn Beca against what she seems to be doing. Chloe has had her share of misfired signals. Bad pick-up lines. Missed connections.

She isn’t quite sure at that moment what she will do if Beca fully comes on to her, but the more selfish part of her knows that she cannot resist if Beca does. She doesn’t want to resist.

Beca’s breath ghosts the side of her neck intimately.

“Beca,” she warns.

Beca hums in response. Her fingers trail a slow, small path across the back of Chloe’s hand. “Can I kiss you?” she requests.

Chloe isn’t sure she responds, but she knows that she finds herself holding an armful of Beca Mitchell as Beca kisses her recklessly and without a care in the world. It is fast and quick, how their lips move together. Familiar to a fault because Chloe can’t remember ever kissing Beca, but perhaps it is the product of imagining what it would be like to kiss the object of her affections.

The reality is, quite simply put, better than any version Chloe created for herself in the past.

Beca both hates and loves how quickly her body alights when her lips touch Chloe’s for the first time. She hates that Chloe elicits this response because it is another reminder of something that Beca had always known—that her attraction to Chloe wasn’t temporary or a one-off. She had simply been too caught up in her own world to do anything about their mutual longing for each other.

And here they are, finally.

Chloe’s hands wander, as do Beca’s. Eager and desperate, their hands trail new paths across the fabric stretching across skin—skin that had once been exposed so many years ago. Chloe tries to fully remember the expanse of skin serving as a canvas to Beca’s shoulder tattoo. She wonders if Beca has gotten more over the years.

She longs to touch so much more.

“Are you sure,” Chloe whispers. She cannot resist trailing her fingers up the side of Beca’s neck, then up the side of her face, caressing the soft skin she finds there. The touch is perhaps more intimate than either of them intends, especially Chloe. She bites her lip, hesitating at the sudden apprehension in Beca’s eyes. Fearing she might have gone too far, Chloe swallows back nausea in favor of drawing away to give them both space. “I’m sorry,” Chloe murmurs, feeling part-ashamed, part-mortified at letting her own emotions consume her in the moment. “I should just…” she lifts herself away from the warmth of Beca’s body beneath her and moves to pull her dress up from where it pools at her waist.

Beca’s hand darts out to wrap around her wrist, urgency in her eyes. Chloe pauses, heaving a breath at the intensity of Beca’s gaze as it tracks from her face down to where she holds Chloe’s wrist. “No,” she says when the silence stretches on a moment too long. “Please,” she implores. “Chloe. I need you.”

Beca says it softly, but it doesn’t lessen the impact of her words. At face value, it is... _everything_ Chloe has ever wanted to hear, right down to this position, perched atop Beca’s thighs, both of them well on their way to (hopefully) mind-blowing sex.

But this is the wrong time, wrong place and Chloe knows they both know this.

“I can’t...take advantage of you,” Chloe says, fumbling with her words. It aches to say it, but only because she feels shame at the thought that she had let it progress this far at all. “I shouldn’t. You just…” she stands as she speaks stiltedly, unsure what to do with both her hands and her words. It feels wrong to simply mention Beca’s father while they had just been...well.

As Chloe regains some semblance of control over her hands, she takes in the barren walls once again—Beca’s room, but one wouldn’t know immediately—and the sheer lack of warmth.

In Beca’s father’s house _too_.

Again, the same. Guilt. Chloe’s eyes track to Beca’s kiss-swollen mouth as she sits up warily, following Chloe’s movements with hesitant eyes. Guilt. Guilt. Shame.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe says again.

Beca says nothing.

For a few moments, Chloe hears nothing except the excessive rustle of clothing as she makes sure her dress is back up over her shoulders. She reaches around to zip up her dress and groans quietly when she realizes she can’t quite get it all the way up. She turns slowly, catches Beca’s eyes for a brief moment before she clears her throat.

Beca blinks away her daze. “Need help?” she offers.

Chloe nods, stricken again by the mood change once more. With those two words, she finds herself at a loss as to where Beca is, emotionally.

Beca stands from the bed. Chloe tries not to gaze too heatedly at the rumpled fabric of Beca’s dress and the gentleness of Beca’s hands as she smooths down the skirt from where it rises up her thighs. It is so easy to _want_ Beca with every fiber of her being. It is no secret to anybody, especially anybody that knows her remotely, that Chloe will always carry a torch for Beca. She has nursed this embarrassing longing for the woman before her for as long as she has known Beca. Through all the heartbreak. Through all their years as friends. Through all their years apart.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” Beca says as the silence splinters into foreign territory. For them, at least; for them, the silence is foreign territory, because Chloe knows how hard they worked at being friends. Even with all the distance, the years they put into their shared friendship aren’t ones that Chloe takes lightly. She can’t. Not when Beca means so much to her.

And yet, Chloe knows that silence would preferably, at least now. While every cell in her body screams out for her to take Beca back into her arms if only to feel Beca’s kiss on her lips once more, her mind falters and tells her otherwise. She turns, unable to look at Beca without wanting to push her back onto the bed.

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

An unexpected flush rises up on Beca’s neck and across her cheeks at the implicit rejection. She is glad that Chloe has turned and that she can’t really see her as she nears Chloe’s still form. “You can’t tell me you don’t want me?”

“I can’t,” Chloe repeats, feeling like the words are hollow, especially when Beca places her hand on her back, at the base of the zipper of her dress.

Beca bites her lip, beginning to pull the zip up Chloe’s dress. Each tiny sound echoes like regret. She is addicted to the feeling of not being so fucking sad at any given moment. She associates that primarily with Chloe and how comfortable she makes Beca feel in her own skin. Second to that, the feeling of being wanted. Desired.

Loved.

Beca exhales slowly, breath washing out against the exposed skin of Chloe’s back as she zips the dress up slowly. She is standing close enough to Chloe now to smell her perfume; she is standing close enough to perceive every ripple that courses through Chloe’s body. Every breath. Every tremble.

Every visible moment of hesitation.

It’s the hesitation that makes Beca pause, slowing the process of zipping up Chloe’s dress.

“Wait,” Chloe murmurs finally, turning around. Beca freezes once more, finding her wrists grasped in Chloe’s sure hands; finding herself face-to-face with Chloe once more. Chloe’s mouth moves a little like she’s grappling with what to say. How to say it.

Beca rocks up on her feet to press a kiss against Chloe’s lips, stealing her breath and saving her the trouble.

Chloe’s hands hesitate before she releases a trembling breath and she is returning Beca’s kiss once more. Slowly, her hands return to Beca’s back, pressing their bodies closer together. Her lips slant against Beca’s, tongue probing gently as she eases them both back into the kiss. It is so easy for Beca to slip into the sensation of feeling Chloe’s impossibly soft lips against her own. So easy to just forget everything else and let Chloe’s lips guide her home.

This kiss is less hurried and less rushed than any of their previous frenzied kisses. It feels so much like a first kiss that every part of Beca’s body begins to ache for the woman in front of her. She groans softly into the kiss, tugging at the front of Chloe’s dress to draw her in closer—close enough that she can _crawl_ into Chloe’s body like she desires. Just merge into the woman pressed against her so they can both forget every last bit of this horrible day.

“Slow,” Chloe whispers then, hands reaching up to grasp Beca’s wrists. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing this slowly.”

Beca swallows, eyes still closed as to savor the phantom of Chloe’s kiss still lingers on her lips. “Slow,” she agrees, eyes finally opening to see Chloe’s eyes gazing back at her intently. “Okay,” she whispers, not wanting to sound too desperate. Her fingers tense around nothing, aching to pull at Chloe’s clothes once more.

 _Make me feel something_.

Chloe pulls her hands, guiding Beca to the zipper on her dress once more. “Take off my dress,” She commands delicately.

Beca almost rushes to obey, but the reminder of Chloe’s request for slowness makes her drag the zip of Chloe’s dress down slowly. Even slower still is how the dress finally pools down to the floor, exposing soft, unmarked skin. Beca’s eyes track greedily over all the available skin, unsure of where she wants to touch first: the soft swells of Chloe’s breasts, still encased by her bra, the flat planes of Chloe’s stomach, the crease between her thighs, the skin still hidden by the thin fabric of her underwear.

“Now yours,” Chloe rasps after a moment, stricken by the intensity of Beca’s wanting gaze. “Take off your dress.”

Beca nods, fumbling with the fabric. She gets her own zipper down and tugs the restrictive garment away, watching as the blackness floats down to the ground. With it, an entire world of weight seemingly lifts from her shoulders.

 _I want to feel you_.

Chloe gasps, a muffled muted sound, as Beca steps back into her space and presses an achingly desperate kiss to Chloe’s lips, the time for softness dissipating as quickly as water on an intensely hot day. It evaporates into the air, with each pass of Chloe’s tongue across Beca’s lips; softness is forgotten with each scrape of Beca’s nails up and down Chloe’s back.

There is almost something incredibly cliche’d about how this is happening in Beca’s room in her father’s house. There is something incredibly fucking upsetting about how this is happening on the eve of her father’s funeral.

And yet Beca can’t bring herself to stop. She unclasps Chloe’s bra and immediately goes for her underwear before Chloe can even begin to grab her bra. Once all clothing hits the ground, Chloe wraps her arms around her and Beca hitches her legs up around Chloe’s hips, both of them stumbling back towards the bed. Beca decides she likes the feeling of how strong and secure Chloe’s arms feel around her and how nicely Chloe’s hips fit between her legs. Even more so, she likes the grunt Chloe lets out when they both tumble on the bed, a mess of open-mouthed kisses and roaming hands like teenagers on a clandestine date.

 _More_ , Beca wants to demand. She rocks her center up against Chloe’s abdomen, hoping Chloe takes the hint. There is no way Chloe can’t feel how wet she is and Beca thinks she can’t even find it in herself to be embarrassed. The rational part of her mind tells her that this is a long time coming anyway, with every last unresolved tension-filled moment between them. The emotional part of her tells her that she has never felt so connected to another person like she has to Chloe Beale.

She hopes Chloe feels the same on either of those fronts.

“Tell me you’re sure,” Chloe whispers, like clockwork. “I need to know, Beca. Please.”

The urgency in Chloe’s voice makes Beca tremble with both want and affection for the woman on top of her. “I’m sure,” she says hurriedly. “Please, Chloe. I need you so much. I need this. _Please_.” The words tumble out of her in a mess of a whine and a moan. They even went without foreplay and Beca already knows that it won’t take much to send her over the edge.

Chloe cradles her close, pressing the gentlest of kisses against her lips. Gentler than Beca has ever allowed herself to imagine. As their lips move together to some phantom rhythm, Chloe’s fingers slowly press inside her with some hesitation at first as if Chloe is waiting for Beca to object still.

Beca forgets her own name when Chloe’s fingers press all the way in, resting so snugly and so deeply inside Beca where she’s the wettest and most desperate. “ _Fuck_ ,” she pants out softly against Chloe’s mouth. Her hips tilt up, unbidden, when Chloe doesn’t move immediately.

“Sorry,” Chloe quickly apologizes, eyes panicked. She licks kiss-swollen lips and moves to pull out, worried that Beca is expressing discomfort.

“No,” Beca rasps quickly, clamping her thighs around Chloe’s retreating hand. “No, _please_ ,” she begs. “I need it,” she rushes out. “I need it. I need you. I need you in me, _fuck_ , Chlo—” she cuts herself off with a sharp cry when Chloe’s fingers press into her again, slick and wet with how much Beca wants her. This time Chloe is less hesitant and less gentle: she presses in firmly, lips parted with her own concentration on making Beca feel good. Beca grunts, low and rough, as Chloe presses into her again, beginning a slow rhythm. The two fingers nestled deeply in her cunt make her head spin.

Chloe hums lowly, lips trailing across Beca’s jaw before her breath comes out hot and damp against Beca’s ear. “Stop being so loud,” she hisses.

It is such an unexpected show of strictness and demand from Chloe that it makes Beca gush in response, her body reacting so naturally to the control Chloe has over her. Her hand moves quicker between Beca’s leg, palm occasionally brushing roughly against her stiff clit only to add stimulation. Beca groans, needing more. She slips her own fingers over her clit, rubbing roughly to the point of overstimulation—pain—with each thrust of Chloe’s fingers. In and out. She bites her lip to stop from crying out as she comes, but a strangled whine escapes her nonetheless. She is so full of Chloe; she is so full of need and want and desire; she is so _full_ but it feels so much better than being so fucking empty. Beca keeps her fingers on her clit as she goes, making sure to add just the right amount of pressure to overstimulate herself because she needs to feel something. In and out, Chloe's fingers go. She tenses her thighs to keep Chloe inside her, just a moment longer.

_Stay, stay, stay—_

A deep guttural sound escapes Beca, finally, and her back arches with how hard she comes around Chloe’s fingers. She wrestles with the need to throw Chloe off her and the need to keep Chloe close, her body overstimulated and understimulated all at once.

 _More_.

“More,” she grunts out. “Fuck, Chloe.”

Chloe groans quietly, pressing her lips against Beca’s neck. “Are you sure?”

Beca is sure. This is probably the first and last time she’ll ever feel like this in this room. Surrounded by memories that she never quite got to make. There is something thrilling about exploring this new beginning with Chloe on the eve of an incredibly tragic ending—one that Beca still isn’t sure how to cope with. But this. This is tangible. The ache between her legs and the want in her heart are all for Chloe.

“Don’t go,” she rasps, not quite responding to Chloe’s question. “Please. I need you.” She isn’t sure when or how she starts crying, but Chloe’s lips catch a few stray tears as she begins peppering kisses along Beca’s skin, soothing her as she continues to come down from whatever insane high just passed through her.

Chloe’s heart splinters at each moment. She wants to be enough for Beca (has always wanted to be enough; Beca made her better; Beca always made her better) and if this is _how_ , then Chloe is all too willing to accept the role of comforter. Confidante. Lover.

Whatever Beca needs.

And now—and for the first time in a long time—Beca needs _her._

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chloe vows. She trembles at the thought that maybe Beca might never know how much she means it—that this is all she has ever wanted to be for Beca. That and so much more.

 _I love you_ , Chloe thinks. _I loved you then, I love you now, and I will always love you._

“Tell me what you need,” Chloe breathes, kissing along Beca’s jaw again and again, finding new favorite spots. She commits everything to memory, knowing that this might be her only chance. For as long as Beca wants her.

“You. Please.”

Beca sounds so desperate.

Chloe has never been able to deny her. She moves her hand back down between Beca’s legs, leaving a trail of wetness along Beca’s lower abdomen and her thighs. Beca is still wet—incredibly so. The sensation sends more heat to Chloe’s own core and she has to bite her lip to stifle the own needy sounds that threaten to escape her. This is about Beca, for as long as she needs. Beca, who is soft and wanting and stretched out around her fingers like she could keep Chloe cradled in her most intimate parts for all eternity.

 _What a way to go_ , Chloe thinks somewhat morbidly—if only Beca would have her for all eternity.

The sounds that escape Beca are sounds that Beca doesn’t even intend to make: whimpers, whines, desperate bitten-off pleas for Chloe to—what? Fuck her harder? Fuck her deeper? Fuck her _more_?

More—more—more fingers, more speed, more depth.

Beca cries out, unable to stop herself. She quickly reaches for Chloe’s hair, tugging her somewhat roughly in for a kiss that is more teeth than lips. It’s painful, almost, the way they clash, but as long as Chloe’s fingers continue filling her the way they are (in and out, curling expertly, pulling and pushing wetness—so wet—as they come and go), Beca is content to bump her teeth against Chloe’s a few times before they find a new rhythm. Chloe’s hips rock down against her thigh, brushing her own throbbing center against Beca’s thigh to seek some relief. Her fingers curl again. Push again.

“Come for me,” Chloe requests hoarsely and unexpectedly against Beca’s ear once she tears her mouth away long enough to do so. “Fuck, you need to come for me _now_.”

It is the command in Chloe’s voice—the ability to simply tell Beca’s body what it needs to do and what she needs to feel—that drives Beca over the edge. She leaves herself completely in Chloe’s capable hands and _sobs_ as she falls apart a second time beneath Chloe’s body. She doesn’t even have time to tell Chloe that she’s coming for her. The orgasm rips through her and fills her with such white-hot heat that her mind follows suit and she blissfully floats through a blank nothingness of pleasure as Chloe coaxes her down from the outside.

Chloe is whispering softly to her as she comes back from her pleasure-induced blackout. “Good girl,” Chloe murmurs, kissing Beca’s cheek. Vaguely, Beca feels Chloe’s fingers slip out from her cunt before her hand rests gently on Beca’s stomach, wet fingers and all. “Hey,” she calls. “Are you okay?”

The tenderness of it all, from Chloe’s voice to her touch, causes Beca to break again, this time with tears prickling at her eyes. She wants to give some of that back to Chloe—wants nothing more than to be a decent enough person to fucking repay her lover with at least one orgasm, but her body is spent. Boneless.

And yet, Chloe doesn’t seem to mind. She never did mind, Beca acknowledges. Chloe had always been there for her even when other people were willing to push her aside.

Still, she is desperate to please. “I need to—you—”

Chloe shushes her. “It’s okay. Hey, shh. It’s okay, Bec. Are you feeling okay?”

Beca curls into Chloe’s side, small and afraid once more. There is a whole world of uncertainty waiting for her. She doesn’t even know how to respond to Chloe: _I’m fine. It’s okay. I’m okay. No, I’m not feeling okay._

Chloe tilts her head up, interrupting the steady flow of intrusive thoughts. Slowly, she kisses Beca once more, as gentle as she had been before. They have shared, seemingly, an entire universe of kisses between them and yet there is so much more that Beca aches to know. Aches to learn.

She aches for Chloe.

As they draw apart naturally, Beca suddenly finds herself afraid to look Chloe in the eyes, even though Beca had been the one to instigate all of this. She had been so desperate to feel something than the crushing weight of her own sadness and existential dread. She had been so desperate to feel something other than herself and her lonely existence.

_And what happens now? What’ll happen between them? Am I somehow too late?_

The barrage of thoughts flood through Beca’s mind at a startling pace, spiking her heart rate. She opts to nestle further into Chloe’s side, trying to ignore the deepening silence between them.

_What if he hadn’t died? Would we be here now?_

“What now?” Chloe asks thickly, sounding very much like she does not enjoy being the one to break the silence.

“Well, there’s tomorrow,” Beca says roughly, voice hoarse from restraining her emotions.

Chloe tenses. “Right. The funeral. I meant…”

“I know what you meant.”

This is easier. Beca can feel Chloe’s heartrate pick up from where her head rests near Chloe’s heart. Her fingers twitch across the flawless expanse of skin she has available to her. It’s so hard to just let Chloe in despite their previous activities. A part of Beca can’t help but feel like they both used each other, though she’s sure sleeping with her wasn’t high on Chloe’s list of priorities when she decided to attend the funeral.

She knows Chloe and she knows Chloe isn’t that kind of person.

There are just so many conditions—so many asterisks to whatever their relationship is now, all underlined and italicized and run through with highlighter. A mess of complicated feelings. It would almost be easier to roll back on top of Chloe and make sure that they’re both too spent to talk and for a moment, Beca lets herself indulge, breath coming out hot against Chloe’s too-warm skin.

“Beca,” Chloe warns quietly. Softly. Sadly.

 _I don’t want this moment to be over._ “There’s tomorrow,” Beca repeats before she huddles even closer to her newfound lover, trying not to think about how desperately she wants Chloe’s arm to curl around her tighter; how desperately she wants Chloe to hold her closer. “Please,” she adds quietly, unsure if she is asking for silence or if she is asking Chloe to hold her.

As always, Chloe somehow knows exactly what to do and holds her for the rest of the night in comforting silence.

* * *

_"You'll find somebody, you know. I have no doubt about that."_

_It is perhaps the oddest conversation to be having with her father. He has never shown interest in her dating prospects._

_"I didn't realize you felt that bad about my dating life," Beca shoots back, uncomfortable already. "We don't have to do this, you know."_

_"I know. But I also know how you've kind of...always felt like things might not work out. Because of what happened with me and your mom."_

_"God please don't."_

_He laughs, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Okay, but I'm rooting for you."_

_Beca wills herself to forget this moment. She doesn't need his reassurances—not from somebody who barely put in work in making a home for her._

* * *

Chloe is there in the morning with water and a small bowl of fruits. She sits gingerly at the edge of Beca’s nondescript bed in her nondescript bedroom.

Fitting. A nondescript existence in her father’s house. His life, maybe.

“Thank you,” Beca rasps, unable to quite meet Chloe’s eyes in light of everything. Chloe looks remarkably pretty with the sun glinting off her neatly-brushed red hair and her borrowed black shirt tucked into her borrowed black skirt. She looks grim and solemn and _sad—_ she looks so fucking sad that Beca wants to comfort her.

“How are you feeling?” Chloe asks quietly. “Sorry,” she says quickly when Beca’s eyes flick up from the bowl of fruits. “Dumb question.”

“Why did you come?” Beca asks after a few long moments. Outsider, somewhere, there is a fucking annoying bird. Beca vaguely remembers hearing her father complain about birds. Maybe this exact one. “Why are you here? All the way in Georgia?”

“Because I love you,” Chloe replies simply. There is no hint of deceit in her eyes. “I love you and I would do anything for you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Something akin to roaring in Beca’s ears begins to drown out the ambient noise around them. “I...no. I don’t know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes. She feels ashamed. Upset that she might have upset Chloe. Disappointed her.

“Don’t be sorry,” Chloe reassures her. She cups Beca’s cheek, tenderly stroking her cheek with her thumb for a few moments. “It’s okay. I love you,” Chloe repeats. “I thought about why I didn’t just tell you that before and I don’t even know why. It feels so stupid that I haven’t just been telling you all this time.”

Beca inhales sharply. “Chloe…”

“I just want you to know that I love you and I care about you. And you’re not alone.” Chloe reaches out to hold Beca’s hand carefully. “This...you don’t have to say anything. Not right now. I’m here for you.”

Beca is filled with regret, but she catches the tiniest ember of hope. Cradling it close to her chest, she gazes up at Chloe with no small measure of vulnerability. “I have to...the funeral today.” _Then we can be whatever we need to be. After._

Chloe nods in understanding. “I’ll help. Whatever you need.”

 _I love you_ , she thinks. Then, aloud—”I love you,” she says, not wanting to wait another moment more because she's so sick of _time_ and the passage of time, spiralling out of her control. But this—loving Chloe and saying it aloud—this she can control.

Chloe reaches for her hand, tangling their fingers together.

Like dawn breaking after an overnight storm, it is the first time in a long time that Beca doesn’t feel alone.

It feels like home.

**Author's Note:**

> you may come harass me (lovingly) on **[tumblr](https://beca-mitchell.tumblr.com/)**.


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